Testing Stacy Ch. 01

This is intended for adults 18 and over only. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of a sexual nature, please, don't read this or download it. If this is illegal wherever you are reading this, please read on, remember to have fun and in the end, cum! (MF, oral, 1st in series)

Thanks to LadyCibelle for editing; and D.H. Lawrence for occasional inspiration.

*

"Hi, I'm wondering if I could take a little of your time?"

Stacy was yanked out of the stupor she had been rolling in, and raised her large brown eyes to see who had questioned her. Jesus. A goddamned interrogation! Exactly what I need when I'm on my way to fucking class. Why me? It's always the same. First it's "Can I ask you a few questions," and then their evaluation turns you into a self-centered egomaniac out of touch with reality.

She looked him over. Shit, she thought, he's gorgeous, I can't say no to him! Smiling nervously she replied: "Uh, yeah, sure." She assumed it was just some sort of questionnaire or survey for an assignment, and it shouldn't take too long. She glanced at her watch as he took a sheet from the clipboard, "Ah shit, Actually, I can't right now," she rescinded, "I need to get to class."

Pained but determined, he simply replied, "Look, I'll write my name and address on it, and then you can get it back to me later: it only needs to be filled in quickly. Total confidentiality: I promise." He grinned. She melted. His teeth were perfect. He had a great smile, she thought, albeit lopsided. He quickly wrote his name and address on the top of the sheet. He had great big hands, she noticed - nicely manicured. He looked nervous, "If you want total anonymity, I mean, you don't want to hand it back to me, just hand it in to the psychology department, Ok?"

Now having to rush, she grabbed the sheet and fired a quick, "Yeah, sure," over her shoulder as she rushed off to her music class, wondering what the hell she had just agreed to.

He watched her run off; her brown curly locks streaming behind her. "No problem," he mumbled to himself.

*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*

Two hours later, she finally finished her class. It was tedious work; the class was studying the diatonic scale at the moment - those 8 notes used by Western musicians, some better than others (compare Beethoven with, say, the Backstreet Boys, for example) - and the basic construction of chords and "their application to composition". Being an undergraduate, she really didn't expect much fun and excitement until her last year and she started her thesis, but she was getting a good basis of knowledge that she could work from. She still had her extracurricular piano lessons with Mr. Adamson.

Bored, Stacy headed for the cafeteria to see if any of her girlfriends were hanging around to talk to. She breezed through the self-opening doors, searching the room. Bloody hell, she thought, where is everyone? She checked her mobile phone: nope, no messages. It was pretty late though. Grabbing a strawberry milk-shake from the refrigerator, she retreated to one of the many empty tables via the cash register.

Looking around the cafeteria, she recognized no one. Stacy had always been a social slut. She looked outside, slurping from her straw and saw Questionnaire Boy walking about - she assumed to class. Jeez, she thought again: he's gorgeous. What an arse! She wondered what the questionnaire was about. She reached into her purple shoulder bag and grabbed the sheet, scanning it as she reached for her pencil case.

Her hand never reached the pencil case. She froze when she read the title: Sexual Habits Of The University Student, And The Perceived Impact On Others. She looked around quickly; glad the cafeteria was devoid of students. Wow, she thought; is this serious? She scanned the rest of the questions, "How often do you think about sex?" was one; "Have you viewed pornographic videos, and if so, what was your response?" was another. She laughed out loud at "What are your thoughts toward so-called perverted forms of sex, i.e. oral and anal sex?" There were a lot of psychology and sociology based ones as well, and she wondered briefly what he was trying to test.

Laughing, she decided to have a little fun with the test. It was confidential, after all. Stacy had always been part of a group of pranksters, sometimes the instigator as well. It was part of the "in" crowd syndrome - she had to put others down and pick faults in them to make her look better and more important than everyone else. And Stacy was definitely one of the "in" crowd. She was perfectly groomed, always wore the latest fashions, which, at the moment, being summer, was blissfully little. Perfect white teeth, natural(ish) looking make up, shiny brown hair. However, unlike her friends, she didn't get offended too easily when she was insulted; and she liked to have a laugh.

Looking back to the form, she began to methodically fill-in the paper with bullshit, surprising herself at her slutty responses. Soon engrossed, it took her the rest of the afternoon, mainly because she had fun having a good think about what she was writing. She knew she was slowly getting horny. She had quite a diverse and thorough sexual knowledge, which was obviously a huge advantage.

She was also a very sexual person - not sluttish, mind you, just someone who pretends she enjoys sex. A couple of the things that she wrote were true, but most of it (including the 6-man gang-bang and the lesbian affair with her drama teacher in high school) were pure fantasy. Soon, she realized she was quite moist. I could fuck anything, she thought.

Finishing the survey quickly, lest her lascivious thoughts dissipate, she threw it into her bag and walked quickly to the toilet. Stacy looked around to make sure the other cubicles were empty, then entered and locked the door of the end one. She sat on the porcelain and dragged her skirt up to her waist, stuffing a hand in her panties to massage her stiff clit.

She was imagining getting fucked by six guys, one after another, using every hole in her body, her ass, her cunt and her hot little mouth, her fingers were working furiously on her cunt, her orgasm rising in her body, her mouth emitting tiny high-pitched whimpers. Biting her bottom lip, and scrunching her face up, she orgasmed heavily, moaning and creaming all over her roving fingers; her fingers slowed, playing lightly with her clit. After pausing for a moment but still breathing heavily, she reluctantly dragged her hand out of her panties and with weak legs, walked unsteadily over to the psychology block, after washing her hands. She dropped in the survey, before catching the evening bus back to her tiny flat, where she promptly fell asleep.

*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*

Waking up the next morning, Stacy had no real idea of what she had done the day before. Like most Uni students, she was living in the moment, just trying to concentrate on her work, and just get it done. She had a good day at Uni today; well, as far as good days go. She had piano practice, which she always enjoyed (even though she had to attend as soon as she arrived), and another (!) hour-long tutorial on Chopin, which she imagined she would enjoy. She wasn't looking forward to it, but she didnÆt fear it either.

She also remembered that she had to go to the bank. She couldn't afford a piano, and she needed to practice. She was paying off her final fifty-dollar installment on a new Yamaha keyboard. She gave no thought to Questionnaire Boy, as she was concentrating on her work. It had just been a bit of fun. She might have a laugh about it to one of her friends later in the day.

On her way to Uni, she stared out the window of the bus, wishing her degree could just be finished tomorrow. She didn't have a job at that stage. She was looking, although half-heartedly. Other than that, she was just sitting at home, bored. She read a bit, usually some light philosophy. There was only so much you can do at home by yourself. She had no steady boyfriend, but she had stupidly agreed to a number of one-night stands. They usually left her disappointed - kind of a "Is that all there is" feeling. Arriving at Uni, she headed for the cafeteria. She had five minutes before the start of her class, so she decided to drop in to see if any of her friends were around.

She spotted Cat and Lizzie talking animatedly across the room, and passed through the tables and chairs to see what they were chatting about. Catherine, or Cat, was in a lot of the same classes as Stacy, and was nearly as gorgeous as her. She was quite tall, over 5' 9" had jet black, nipple length hair, cold, azure-tinted eyes, and a fairly pale complexion. She was younger than Stacy by three months, and Stacy usually considered Cat to be her best friend. Saying the idolized Marilyn Manson would probably sum up her temperament pretty well.

Lizzie, or Elizabeth, as she hated to be called was quite the opposite. She was tiny, 4' 10" in fact, and was the youngest of all three. She had just turned 18 the week before, and showed off the fact at every opportunity. Always the attention seeker, she was probably making up for her lack of height, by being a natural exhibitionist. Long blonde hair, down to her ass, often neatly bisected into pigtails; dark hazel eyes and a tiny button nose, shiny lips and perfectly straight teeth got her a lot of attention. Despite their beauty, both girls steadfastly remained virgins.

"Stace!" Cat cried when she saw her. Leaping up, Cat and Stacy embraced in a tight bear hug. Cat's eyes widened, "Oh my god, Stace, guess what happened yesterday?!" Barely giving her time to ask, Cat dragged her down into a chair and started talking a million miles a minute. "I went down on Carl! How cool is that! It felt so nice! And then he came, and like, OH MY GOD. He's sooo cool. He even said thanks!"

Stacy looked at Lizzie, who was grinning widely, also obviously having already had the "benefit" of Cat's verbose monologue. "That's great Sweetie," she began, remembering her feelings from when she gave her first blowjob - the apprehension and the uncertainty and then the satisfaction and the pride - "Bet you feel proud!" Cat nodded enthusiastically. Stace glanced at her watch, "Anyway, I better head off to class, Sweetie, I'll be late otherwise."

Cat pouted, "'Cause that would be such a shame!" Stacy laughed. She had never skipped a class in her life, unlike her Goth friend, who avoided class as much as possible.

"I gotta go," she said, standing up to walk off to the piano room. She paused, shocked to see Questionnaire Boy staring at her again. As soon as he noticed him, he grinned, winked at her, and wandered off. Stacy felt her legs go a little weak, and her face felt hot. She offered a quick "Good-bye" to her girlfriends and hurried to where he had been standing, searching the corridor.

Where had he gone? She spotted him down the corridor, but she was dismayed that he had been on his way to class, watching as he walked into one of the lecture theatres. Or did he know he was being followed? Had he hidden? A billion thoughts rushed through her head as she rushed off for practice.

She felt an unfamiliar feeling rise in her. She wanted him. Questionnaire Boy. She desired him, needed him. It was like an itch, but she didn't know where. But she knew that he - and he alone - could scratch it. She had never felt like this before, the sex had always come looking for her. She wanted to look for him. She wanted him to fill her up. The thoughts scared her. She pushed them from her muddied brain and hurried off to piano practice.

*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*

The quiet, lilting notes of Tchaikovsky's Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy rained from the Steinway & Sons piano as Stacy's fingers raced across the keys. It was one of Stacy's favorite songs. It was largely upbeat, but she always thought there was something sinister about the melodic Celesta bells. Even the gorgeous Steinway Grand could not do those bells justice. She had always loved pianos, - the range of expression and depth was unrivaled by any other instrument. She had been very musical throughout her life, and this degree was the culmination, the peak of her musical education. She began thinking about Questionnaire Boy again. What did he want from her? And more importantly, what did she want from him?

Her hands skidded suddenly across the keys, hitting a series of wrong notes. Angered, she struck at the keys in frustration, sending a loud inharmonious chord to resonate harshly through the music room. Her mind hadn't been on the music, she mused, and she turned the pages back to the beginning of the song so she could start again. "Concentrate, Stace," she reprimanded herself, "Forget about him." She placed her hands back on the ivory to start again.

"Forget about who?"

Stacy leapt three feet in the air, spinning toward the door to identify the intruder. It was, thankfully, just her music teacher, Mr. Adamson. Grinning, she replied that he should mind his own P's & Q's. Mr. Adamsons' face grew sterner. "Seriously Miss Stacy, something is going on," he moved across the room to the wide piano stool and sat beside her: "You have been note-perfect with that song for the last six months, now you stuff up. Is something the matter?" She tried not to laugh at his word-perfect English, which sounded odd with his syrupy Jamaican accent.

"It's just boy stuff, Mr. Adamson, nothing important." She placed her toned fingers back on the keyboard of the huge, black piano. She looked up at Mr. Adamson, who was also huge and black. Her mindÆs eye threw up a vision of her toned fingers playing across his cock. She shook her head, knowing she should get rid of these thoughts. They were beginning to freak her out. He gave an inquisitive look, as if to ask what sort of "boy stuff". Feeling obliged, she continued, "I've just been having silly little thoughts about boys," she repeated, feeling as though she was about 12 years old again. "It's nothing for you to worry about." She felt extremely intimidated, but aroused, sitting next to such a formidable man. She turned back to the piano, trying to ignore his questioning.

"Sexual thoughts?"

Shocked that he had even dared to bring it up, she snapped her head back around to face him. "Yes, sexual thoughts," she snapped, instantly regretting divulging such information, but he seemed to be listening. Continuing, "I have a crush on this guy, but I don't want to have sex with him. Jesus - I don't even know his name. I can't behave like normal people when I am around attractive people. I mean, I love the thought of sex, but I have never really had it, and-"

"You're a virgin?" Mr. Adamson looked surprised, "A gorgeous young woman like you? I don't believe it."

"I'm not a virgin." Stacy countered, eyes back on the piano. She began tapping out a quiet melody, making it up as she went along.

"But you said- "

"I didn't say that! I said I haven't had sex. Proper sex. Where I know what I'm doing. Where I can respond. I mean, people have had sex with me, if you know what I mean." She looked at him again, realizing that she was actually very confused and very aroused.

"So how do you know what you want? No, we shouldn't be talking about this. I'm your teacher."

"Why not?" she smiled, suddenly anxious to see his cock, "Like you said, you're a teacher. I want you to teach me."

"Teach you to wha-- . . . Uh, no, I don't like where this is going. I don't want to have this conversation."

"C'mon. Just teach me how to please someone. I want to enjoy sex." She turned her upper body toward him and looked into his eyes, "I just want to feel . . .something. I just want to feel loved. Wanted."

Mr. Adamson quickly excused himself from the situation, "Miss Stacy, we cannot have this conversation. It would be improper." He stood and walked quickly from the room, leaving Stacy alone, dwarfed by the piano.

Her embarrassment welled up inside her. Blinkered with desire, she had just begged a teacher to have sex with her, and he turned her down. Why shouldn't he? On second thoughts, why should he? Improper? There was nothing improper about getting a right royal fucking from a black, almost definitely well hung music teacher. Well, maybe a few little things. Angered and humiliated, she hammered away angrily at the piano, pounding out an astoundingly precise rendition of Chopin's Polonaise in A Major. There was always something soothing, therapeutic, about playing the piano thunderously loudly. If only piano's had dick's she thought. At least the thought gave her a smile. Jesus Christ, I'm horny.

*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*

She was gorgeous, Chris reflected. Heavenly and pristine. Though he could only see her from the back, he stared, transfixed, as her fingers danced and spun across the keys, her head following, her brain making hundreds of automatic computations regarding the pressure, and speed of the notes, as well as thinking about what she was going to play. He didn't even know her name - it seemed unimportant, redundant somehow. How much he would love to just be able to walk up to her and tell her that he thought she played brilliantly, or that she was beautiful, or if she would play something else.

It was the same every time he had a crush on a someone. He just couldn't approach them. He couldn't stand to have them look at him, when they did, it was something about their eyes, and his knees went to jelly. He was reminded of the infamous maxim, "What doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger". What did he have to lose? Still nervous, he stepped apprehensively into the room. Fuck it, his brain told him, you only live once. Make the most of it.

He crept up behind her silently, and placed his hand over her eyes. She stopped playing instantly; a little scared, asking hopefully, "Mr. Adamson?" Saying nothing, Chris sat beside her, his hand still veiling her eyes. Now with them covered, he could do whatever he liked - she couldn't see him, couldn't make him nervous.

He lifted his other arm, and tentatively caressed her bottom lip with his thumb, feeling the warmth and sheen. Stacy shivered at the contact. "Who is tha--" Chris placed a gentle finger over her mouth, silencing her momentarily, then trailed his finger down her perfect chin and ticklishly traced it down her throat, pausing at her blood-red bra. Stacy moaned at the intimate contact, desperate for some identification. He was totally anonymous. Now why did that ring a bell?

"Oh, go on, touch my boob. Please. . ." Stacy groaned. Desperate as she was for identity, she was also desperate for his touch - a more intense touch. Realizing that he would have to close the door if he were to go any further, he stopped. She has to know.

Feeling something brush past her ear, she winced slightly. It was his mouth. He whispered into her ear, "I suppose you're wondering who I am . . ." Stace froze. She knew that voice. Where was that voice from? Something in the back of her mind connected the voice with good feelings, so she shouldn't fear him too much.

"Please tell me!" She murmured, become more and more aroused, "I want you so much."

Chris's self esteem soared at this. I must be doing something right! This is it, he thought. Make a decision, dammit! What can happen? He pulled his hand back, and they stared at each other. Stace was shocked, but only for a moment, "Wow, it's you," she grinned, "I was just thinking about you."

Chris looked suddenly pained: "Six guys? . . . You had sex with six guys?"

Stacy was shocked, "What the hell? I haven't had sex with six guys?" The fog of confusion soon dissipated though, "Oh, the survey thing. Um . . . that . . . um . . . wasn't actually true." She looked upset.

"But you want it to be?"

"What? No! Why would I want that?"

"How much psychology have you done?"